An Experiment in Sentiment
by Books In the Blood
Summary: After a tough case Sherlock and John find comfort in alcohol, and, each other. Even Sherlock proves that he has need of comfort sometimes and who better to comfort him than John ? Hints of Johnlock but mostly just friendship. Lots of fluffy feels :)
1. Seeing Red

**Hi guys! Hope you enjoy the story. Lots of feels guaranteed, both happy and sad! Please review and let me know what you think**

John's hands shook as he sat in the cab. He didn't try to stop them from shaking; rather he just stared down at them as if they weren't attached to his body. He looked at the little dots of blood that covered them and felt bile rise in his throat. He swallowed to make it go down but it didn't seem to help that much. He felt sick and the ride in the cab wasn't making it better. _I wish Sherlock was here….I want him here_, he thought. If Sherlock was here it might be easier to pull himself together; to forget the events of the day. But Sherlock wasn't here and so rather than just trying to pull himself to together he was also worrying about Sherlock and where he was. Though he knew that the detective didn't have emotions the way that normal people did, John knew he was affected. How could he not be? After what had happened? John wasn't stupid; he knew that Sherlock was upset. He had practically run away from the crime scene, faster than John could catch him. He was in a cab and racing away before John could catch him. He had no idea where Sherlock would be going or what he would do. John could only hope that Sherlock would be making his way back home. But that was simple, and Sherlock wasn't simple.

John balled up his shaking hands into fists, still studying the spots of blood. He felt vomit coming up his throat and he closed his eyes to stave it off. He felt like this cab ride was never going to end; he just wanted to get back to 221B. Hopefully Sherlock would be there; Sherlock always made everything better. Though, considering what had happened, John didn't know how much comfort his friend would be. At the very least, when he got home he could finally vomit and wash the blood off him.

When the cab finally arrived to 221B John paid the cabbie in a sort of daze and then got out of the cab. It was pouring the rain and even though it was early evening, it was already nearly dark. He walked quickly to the door, unlocking it and running with haste up the stairs. "Sherlock! Sherlock" he called out hopefully through the flat, checking the rooms. He had hoped that Sherlock might have simply been hoping for the comfort of home, but it was obvious that he had gone somewhere else. John felt his heart sink even further and he wondered where Sherlock had gone. He hoped that he wouldn't do something foolish or dangerous. He couldn't even begin to guess where Sherlock might have gone.

John's stomach rolled with the nausea that he had been holding back in the cab and he just made it in time to the toilet before everything came up. His lunch burned his throat as it came up; maybe Sherlock had a point about not eating while on a case. His throat burned and it left a horrible taste in his mouth, but his stomach felt much better empty. He clawed his way up from the floor, using the toilet to pull himself up. He turned on the tap and used his hands to scoop up water into his mouth. He swished it around a few times before spitting it out in the sink, washing away some of the nasty taste in his mouth.

John turned on the shower as hot as he could stand it and took off his clothes as the room began to fill with steam. When he got into the shower he simply stood under the water for a long time, allowing it to fall on his head, face, back. Running down him and burning his skin, it could do nothing to burn the images from his brain. With fervor he grabbed the soap and began scrub his skin as hard as he could. Even after the blood was gone, he still rubbed. It wasn't until he skin burned and was almost raw that he allowed himself to stop scrubbing and stand placidly under the water again.

It had been horrible, tragic, awful, the events of the day. This whole week had led up to a horrible conclusion. All week Sherlock and John had been trying to find a man who had killed his wife and 10 year old son. It was an awful situation in the first place, and it was only made more urgent by the fact that his other child, a five year old girl, was believed to be with him when he fled. Her body hasn't been discovered and it was everyone's hope that they could find him in time to save her life. Sherlock had worked exceptionally hard, even for him, working almost around the clock for the past six days. They had been running from place to place and every time that it seemed that they got close to finding him, he had vanished. Finally, today they had found him; he was holed up in a cheap motel and Sherlock and John found themselves in a dangerous hostage situation; the girl was alive but the man had a gun and he was extremely unstable. Lestrade knew where they were going but wasn't with them yet; Sherlock did his best to keep conversation going until he got there. John wasn't even sure how it happened; it was all a blur. The police coming into the room, Sherlock reaching out towards the girl as she managed to wiggle free of her father's grasp….then the bullets. John would forever be haunted by the sight of the girl's blood splattering all over Sherlock, reaching him just at the moment her father shot her in the back of the head, before putting the gun to his own head. John had seen the rare, crestfallen look come over Sherlock's countenance as he crumpled to the ground, the girl limp in his arms.

John allowed himself to stand under the water until it began to turn icy cold, leaving goose bumps on his arms, before getting out of the shower. He rapped up in a thick towel but he was still chilled. He abandoned his soiled clothes in the bathroom and walked to his bedroom. He was hoping to here sounds in the flat indicating that Sherlock was back, but no such luck. The flat was deathly silent and it made John feel even worse. He turned on the telly just for some background noise before going to his room to get some pyjamas. He put a warm set on and felt his empty stomach begin to feel nervous when he thought about Sherlock. He just wished that his friend was here; so he could know that Sherlock was okay. So that he could feel okay.

Sherlock and John's job often revolved around death and murder, but it wasn't often that they witnessed murder first hand. And they had never had a child be murdered in front of them. Though Sherlock did nothing wrong, John was almost sure that Sherlock was going to blame himself for what had happened. As much as he himself had been haunted by the girl's blood, the image of her dying, he knew that it had to be a million times worse for Sherlock who had to look in her eyes, see the light go out of them.

Not knowing if Sherlock was going to come home anytime soon, John allowed himself to go to his closet and pull down his blue threadbare quilt from the back of the closet. He had never allowed himself to find comfort in it when Sherlock was here but even if he did show up, John would just be happy he was back with him.

John took the quilt to the living room and tossed it on his chair, before going to the kitchen and pulling out the only bottle of alcohol in the house. Sherlock didn't drink and John tried to keep himself in moderation; he had drunk far too much in his younger days and he didn't want to come to rely on it. He rarely allowed himself to get drunk these days. But as he took the bottle and glass to the living room he knew without a doubt he was going to get drunk tonight.

John lit a fire in the fireplace to warm the chilled flat before sitting down in the chair. He pulled the old quilt onto his lap and poured himself a drink. He sipped it slowly; the rain outside began to pick up speed and it soon was a full blown thunderstorm. The telly was on but he wasn't watching or listening to it. He was getting lost in the thunder and lightning more than the crappy programs. The more he drank the duller the images of the day got, but in contrast the more he drank the worst he wished that Sherlock would come home. After what seemed like a very long time, he simply curled up in the quilt, pulling it up to his chin and missing his friend. The flat was simply too quiet and empty without him.

He felt a drowsy, alcohol induced nap coming on when he heard a noise downstairs. He sat back up quickly, hoping it was Sherlock. Only it didn't sound right at all; he thought he heard two voices, and one of them was singing, in French and very badly at that.

John was just about to open the door when it burst open to a most unusual sight. He not only saw Sherlock but Mycroft standing on his doorstep.

"What in the world?" John asked as he took in the sight in front of him.

Sherlock was leaning heavily on Mycroft; and _he had _been the one singing. Still was singing. John had never heard Sherlock sing. And he had never seen his eyes glazed and bloodshot like he was now. Sherlock Holmes was drunk.

"Is he drunk?" John asked the obvious of Mycroft.

Mycroft had a very annoyed expression on his face as he deposited Sherlock's leaning frame on John's shoulder. "Never seen Sherlock intoxicated before?" he asked.

"No" John said, "I didn't even know it was possible to get him to consume any alcohol"

Mycroft gave an amused smirk. "Well then you're in for a very interesting night" he said, before turning to leave the flat.

**Interesting? hmmmm...wonder why he's saying that? :)**


	2. Ice cream and Dancing

"Wait!" John called out toward Mycroft as he was leaving, struggling under the weight of Sherlock who had, apparently, decided it was a good idea to not stand on his own at all and just lean completely on John.

Surprisingly, the elder Holmes turned around and faced John. "Aren't you going to, I don't know, explain this?" John asked in confusion, looking at Sherlock who had taken to whistling. It was preferable to the off key singing but it was still annoying.

"Considering the day that the two of you have had I would think that an explanation is not necessary" Mycroft said.

John felt himself start to get irritated. He hated Mycroft's superiority and "Big Brother" attitude. Of course Mycroft knew exactly what had happened at the crime scene without being anywhere close to it. Normally John would just blow it off but right now he was just annoyed by it. "I understand his need to drink but I want to know how is it you found him" John asked, miffed.

"I didn't find him" Mycroft said, "He was causing such a ruckus in the bar that they called me." He looked at Sherlock with the look of disgust that an older sibling gives a younger one when they are being embarrassing.

John wasn't sure he wanted to know what consisted of Sherlock causing a "ruckus" in a bar. It seemed so out of character and though it was irritating, it was kind of alarming too. John had never seen Sherlock consume more than one drink at a time; he must really be shaken up.

"I trust that you can take good care of him" Mycroft said, preparing to leave once again.

It was at this moment that Sherlock seemed to notice John's presence. "John!" he exclaimed, still leaning on John and moving in so that his face was uncomfortably close "My John! Yes, of course John will take good care of me" Sherlock leaned in even more and patted him on the shoulder. "My John is a very good doctor"

John felt his face turn red with embarrassment at Sherlock's closeness and compliments, especially his usage of "my" John. John shrugged Sherlock off his shoulder, and once he saw that Sherlock wasn't going to immediately fall over, he moved a slightly away from him, to what he considered a safe distance. Mycroft was fixing John with a smirk. " Oh, by the way, Sherlock's a friendly drunk" he said before turning and leaving the flat.

Good riddance, John thought as he watched Mycroft leave the flat. John turned around and looked at Sherlock who was standing a few feet from him, with an unusual smile on his face and appearing to stare off into space. It was weird; John had seen Sherlock staring off, deep in thought, but he had never seen him stare off as if he was not focused which is exactly how he looked now. John wondered how much he had drunk and what had happened that had prompted Mycroft needing to be called.

"Sherlock, what is going on here?" John asked. "What were you doing? What could you have been doing to be called out of bar?"

Sherlock continued to stare off into space. A minuet passed before John said, "Hey, Sherlock, wake up!" Sherlock finally moved his gaze until he was staring at John. He still had a wide grin on his face. "What were you doing Sherlock?" he asked, now that Sherlock was looking at him.

Sherlock just continued to smile at him. After a ridiculously long time, Sherlock finally spoke. "Hi, John" he said waving at John.

John put his hands on his face and rubbed his eyes; he could see that this was going to be very interesting. Sherlock was on a completely other planet. "Um, hi, Sherlock" John said slowly. "Want to tell me why Mycroft had to take you home?"

"Oh, I don't know!" Sherlock said loudly, "I was just drinking, chatting with people and next thing I know Mycroft shows up and takes me home. I was having fun, so I don't know why we had to leave. But I guess Mycroft always ruins my fun." He crossed his arms like a pouting child.

There were so many things wrong with that statement that John didn't even know where to start. Sherlock "chatting" with people? Having fun doing something other than his work? It didn't make any sense at all. John looked at Sherlock closer and noticed a small red spot on his face. "Did you get in a fight?" John asked incredulously. It looked very much like he had been hit.

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked. He looked at John as though he had lost his sanity.

John walked over to Sherlock and touched the spot on his cheek. "There, you've got a spot on your face. Did you get into a fight with someone?"

Sherlock smiled broadly. "Oh, that? Um…..I fell. Tripped" he said dismissively.

John wasn't buying it. He looked at Sherlock's hand, which had scrapes on the knuckles. He grabbed Sherlock's hand and pointed to the scrapes. "Suppose you got that from falling down too?" he asked sarcastically.

Sherlock looked in astonishment at his knuckles as if they belonged to someone else. "Well, would you look at that?" he said.

"Oh, brother…." John muttered under his breath. He sat down in his chair and drank the last bit of alcohol out of his cup from earlier. The slight buzz that he was feeling earlier had burned off and he was desperate to get it back, especially if Sherlock was going to be completely out of it. As he was pouring himself another drink, Sherlock walked over to him and leaned, again, way too close in to his face before saying, "Really, John, you shouldn't be drinking so much."

John cursed before pushing Sherlock back away from him a little bit. "Personal space,  
Sherlock!" he asked irritably. "And I don't really think you should be lecturing me on drinking when you're obviously wasted." John drank the whole glass in a couple of gulps, barley tasting it.

"I also don't have a family history of alcoholism either" Sherlock said, "And I'm not wasted" As if disprove his point, Sherlock lost his balance, falling on his backside.

The jab at Harry should have made him angry, but maybe the alcohol was getting to him because he just laughed at the sight of Sherlock fallen in the floor. "No, you're completely sober" John said sarcastically, laughing. As awful as the day had been he finally was beginning to feel himself relax a bit as the alcohol began to work its way through his body.

John left Sherlock in floor and went to the bathroom. When he came back he noticed that Sherlock was no longer lying in the floor. He found Sherlock on the couch, apparently watching whatever crappy program was on television while eating ice cream out the carton. John had never seen Sherlock eat ice cream, much less like he was now, savagely digging it out of the carton with a spoon. It was so comical that John didn't bother to mention that it was his ice cream. "Good ice cream?" John asked, trying to suppress a laugh as he sat down in his chair.

"Very good" Sherlock said "Want some?" he thrust the battered carton at John.

"Um, no, that's okay. Really that's okay" John said, with a laugh. "Alcohol and ice cream don't really mix"

"Really, I'm finding it a good combination" Sherlock said.

"Well, just be careful" John said, cautiously "I don't want you puking all over the couch"

Sherlock scrunched his nose in a disgusted pose. "Uh, why would I do that?" he asked.

"Oh, no reason" John said, "You're just shoving a whole tub of dairy products on top of a belly of alcohol….no big deal" he watched as Sherlock continued to eat , not even bothering to look up. "Aren't you slightly lactose intolerant? I mean it makes you sick if you eat a lot of milk, right?"

"Oh, dull" Sherlock said through a mouthful of ice cream, sounding slightly like his normal self. "Mother never could stop me from eating ice cream, I doubt you will"

John was surprised at Sherlock's mention of his mother; he'd only heard him mention her one other time and that was just in passing, when explaining who Mycroft was when he's first met him. Perhaps, in addition to making him do things he would normally never do like sing, eat and forget all sense of personal space, the alcohol was loosening him a little to talk about things. "I'm not trying to stop you" John said, "Though, I'd imagine your mother tried to stop you because it make you not feel good."

"I suppose" Sherlock said, looking off into the distance. Then he began to shovel it in again. "But it was always worth it"

"So there is actually something to eat you admit you like?" John asked in shock.

"Obviously" Sherlock said rolling his eyes.

"Well, enjoy the belly cramps" John said sarcastically. He knew Sherlock enough to know if he bent on doing something, he would do it. Plus, Sherlock wasn't exactly a stranger to self-harming behaviors. When had it ever stopped him doing something just because it was unhealthy or unsafe?

John finished his drink as Sherlock finished off the last of the ice cream, carelessly tossing the carton into the floor where it hit the rug and dripped everywhere. At this point John didn't even care; noticing that Sherlock was sitting back on the couch with a relaxed expression he tried interrogating Sherlock again. "So, Sherlock. What happened to your hand there" he said nonchalantly.

"Scrapped it" Sherlock said rolling his eyes as if John had the intelligence of a dull child.

"Well, yeah I know that, but _how _did you scrap it?" John asked.

"I _told _you, silly John" Sherlock said in that weird happy voice he had used when he'd arrived home. " I fell"

"Yeah, but how?" John asked.

"Tripped on my shoestring" Sherlock said. "The music in that place was rather good and I just fell….."

John was beginning to piece it together. A smile was beginning to twitch at the corners of his mouth as Sherlock's disconnected sentence began to make sense in his mind. "Let me guess, you were dancing and tripped on your shoestring?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose" he said.

The image of Sherlock dancing in the bar, tripping and falling on his face was so funny to John in his slightly tipsy state that he began to laugh. It wasn't lost on Sherlock. "What's so funny?" he asked.

"Nothing…." John said, trying and failing to suppress the giggles. "I'm just trying to picture you dancing"

Sherlock seemed to take offense. "I'll have to know I'm a very good dancer" he said.

"Yeah, sure, Sherlock" John said in disbelief.

Sherlock's face fell for a second as he realized that he was being insulted; then, he got a wide smile on his face as he got up and began to dance around the living room. His moves were wide and sweeping, like ballroom dancing moves; they were actually good but the thing was so hilarious that John just couldn't stop laughing. He was feeling red in the face from laughing when Sherlock swept over towards John, grabbed him by the hands and pulled him up. As he realized as what Sherlock was trying to do, he said, "No way, Sherlock". He pulled his hands back towards himself; he wasn't drunk enough to dance with Sherlock.

"Oh come on, John" Sherlock said "The dance isn't really complete without a partner"

"Well, I am _not _your partner" John said, turning red. He felt a little unsteady on his feet as the alcohol was beginning to take hold of him again. He leaned back slightly as he felt a wave come over him.

Sherlock saw this sway and took advantage of it. "Sure you are" he said and grabbed John's hands, sweeping him across the floor. John tried to get away from Sherlock as he pulled him across the floor and move around but John felt that he was dizzy and every time he tried to pull away, he began to lose his balance. After a little while he gave up and just let Sherlock pull him around living room. After all, no one was here to see it and he had to admit it was a little bit fun. _Oh, God, I need to lay off the alcohol!, _he thought. At least one of the needed to be sane.

After a few minutes of twirling around the room, Sherlock came to an abrupt halt, causing John to smack into Sherlock's chest with strong force. He grunted as the force hit him. He realized in an awkward moment that he was about an inch away from Sherlock's face. He tried to pull away from Sherlock's hands but he held tight; what had seemed silly a second ago now seemed weird and John wanted to get away. Sherlock was fixing him with the strangest expression on his face. He wasn't smiling like he was a second ago. Now he was looking at John intently.

"Let go Sherlock" John said uncomfortably, trying to pull away from him. But he held firm.

"John…." Sherlock said, the look his face getting more and more intense.

"What, Sherlock?" John asked cautiously.

"John…" Sherlock said, more softly this time.

"What? I'm standing right here?" John asked. He wished Sherlock would just say whatever it was he was going to say. John felt himself begin to sweat and his stomach churn. It was a strange feeling and he didn't care for it. "Just spit it out Sherlock!"

But John came to regret saying that; for just a second later Sherlock did spit it out. And "it" turned out to be all of the ice cream that he had eaten earlier, all down his front, and thanks to not letting go of John, all down his front as well.

This was going to be a long night…..

**Seems like John has got his hands full! though that might turn out to not be a bad thing ;) Let me know what you all think! Reviews are greatly appreciated!**


	3. You're a good doctor, John

"Sherlock!" John cried in exasperation. He pulled back from Sherlock, his pajamas now covered in vomit. As a doctor he was used to being thrown up on but he never thought in a million years that he would have Sherlock Holmes throw up on him. Especially not because he was drunk. "Why didn't you run to the bin?"

Sherlock wiped his mouth. "It kind of snuck up on me" he said. He crumpled to the floor suddenly "I don't feel very good"

John suddenly felt really weary. The events of this day and how horrible they had been, toppled with the comicalness of Sherlock being drunk and making a spectacle of himself made for a lot of ups and downs. He should be angry at Sherlock for being so childish, but he really couldn't. All he felt as he looked down at his friend, sitting down with a crushed expression and dirty clothes, was pity. John knew that when Sherlock admitted that he didn't feel good it really meant something; John knew him well enough to know he didn't just mean that his stomach felt bad.

John felt like this was the perfect opportunity to say 'I told you so' about the ice cream but he didn't even want to. For the first time that evening he thought about the fact that Sherlock had been out drinking because of what had happened with the little girl earlier. Sure it was nice to laugh at the comical antics that Sherlock was putting on now but behind that mask of drunkenness he was hurting. John had been so focused on looking for comfort from Sherlock that he hadn't really taken the time to consider that Sherlock might actually need some comfort himself. He didn't know what comfort for Sherlock looked like, but he would at least do what he could.

"Here, let's get washed up" John said as he put his hands out and helped Sherlock up. He took to his attitude of leaning as he had been doing earlier, leaning very heavily on

John as they walked to the bathroom.

John turned on the light and walked over to the tub. He deposited Sherlock into the empty tub, siting back so that his long legs were hanging over the side and turned the shower head on so that it was spraying gently on Sherlock. He, not surprisingly, began to whine. "John, I'm getting wet!"

"Of course you are" John said, "I'm trying to get you cleaned off" He took a towel and began the unpleasant work of wiping the mess off Sherlock's shirt.

"But I don't want this water spraying on me" Sherlock continued to whine. "Just get me new clothes!"

"I'm going to do that, but you're covered. You need to be cleaned up a little first" John said, wishing selfishly that Sherlock would recognize for a second that John was the one in the uncomfortable position. The sleeves of his own shirt began to get wet and since he was a mess too he just took his own shirt off.

"I don't want to, John" Sherlock whined, closing his eyes and moving weakly around but other than that not making much of an effort to get away. "It's cold in here and I just want my dressing gown on"

"I know it's cold in here" John said, shivering a little bit where the water was hitting his bare arms and chest. "But you need to be washed" He also hoped that the cold water would sober him up a little bit. Already his demeanor was changing from happy and manic to whiny and needy. Maybe it was working.

Feeling quite awkward, but knowing he had to do it, he began to unbutton Sherlock's shirt and take it off so that he could get him a little more cleaned off. Sherlock grumbled a little bit but didn't protest to having his shirt removed. John moved the towel around Sherlock's chest and neck until he was clean, trying not to notice how skinny his friend was. _He doesn't eat nearly enough,_ John found himself fretting.

Sherlock had grown quite after a few minutes and was no longer carrying on, he had just closed his eyes and sat back, letting the water soak his black curls. He might have been asleep but John knew better. John turned the water off and got a clean towel, first drying off Sherlock's hair and then dabbing his arms and chest. He was surprised when Sherlock finally spoke up again.

"See, I told Mycroft" he said, opening his eyes slightly.

"Told him what?" John asked.

"That you would take care of me because you are a good doctor" Sherlock said. He smiled at John with a smile that seemed young and innocent, very unlike Sherlock. John felt himself grow just as embarrassed as he had been when he'd said it the first time even though Mycroft wasn't here to hear it.

"Well, that's what I do I suppose" John said awkwardly, his face flushing. "Uh, I'm going to go get you some clothes."

John went to Sherlock's room, goose bumps moving over his own skin at the chill of the flat. He noticed as he past that the fire had gone out and he stopped for a second to replace it. When the flame were burning brilliantly again, he continued to Sherlock's room. John opened the door hesitantly and walked in. He rarely went in Sherlock's room and it felt like an intrusion. Though, Sherlock wasn't in any condition to really care so it didn't matter he supposed.

Like the rest of the flat Sherlock kept his bedroom a mess, with books and experimental supplies strewn all over the place. His bed was ruffled from the last time that he had slept in it, which had no doubt been several days ago and a crumbled pair of pajamas lay on top. John just grabbed those, as he didn't really relish the idea of going through Sherlock's drawers, and grabbed his favorite dressing gown off the hook on the back of the door and went to leave quickly. The sound of the storm outside had gotten worse and at least once a minuet it seemed that lightening flashed and lit up the inside of the flat.

When John got back to the bathroom he found Sherlock in much the same condition as he had been when he had left; still sitting in the bathtub, sitting back with his eyes closed. He looked almost asleep and when John saw him shivering, he felt almost sorry for having dumped in there and dosing him with cold water just because he'd thrown up on him. Almost.

John laid the clothes on the edge of the sink and said quietly, not to disturb him, "Here's your clothes Sherlock" and turned to leave the bathroom.

Sherlock's eyes shot open. "Where are you going?" he asked, his voice rising shrilly.

John turned around in surprise. " I'm going to change my clothes and clean up the mess in the living room" he said.

"Aren't you going to stay?" he asked.

"Why would I stay?" John asked, "I'm not going to be far, just in the other room."

"Can't you….." Sherlock said, trailing off. He looked off to the side as if he was tired.

"Can't I what?" John asked. This version of Sherlock was so weird.

"Help me" Sherlock said pointing to his clothes.

John face heated up. "Help you change your clothes?" he asked in astonishment. "Why would I do that?"

Sherlock's face fell a little bit as he put a hand to his head. "I'm so dizzy John, I feel so strange" he said.

"Well, that'll be the alcohol" John said. He actually did feel sorry for Sherlock, but there was no way on earth he was going to help him change his clothes. He'd have to be a lot drunker than he actually was to take Sherlock Holmes clothes off. As it was, he was feeling awkward enough standing here in the bathroom with neither of them having a shirt on.

"I'm going to fall down" Sherlock said, holding his head. "I feel really bad."

John's stomach twisted in sympathy. "I'm really sorry Sherlock. That's what happens when you drink too much. Feels really good for a while, then you feel sick. But trust me, you can stand up long enough to put your clothes on." He turned around and left Sherlock sitting in the bathtub, feeling sorry for him, but not going to give in to his childish request. He would take care of a lot of things but not that. He wasn't that good of a doctor.

**Sherlock's a mess! What would he do without John to take care of him? Things will get fluffy in the next chapter :) **

**Please follow and review!**


	4. Is this cuddling?

He went to the living room and cleaned up the mess on the floor and then went to his bedroom to put on new pajamas. When he passed by the bathroom on his way to the living room, Sherlock was still sitting in the bathroom sulking, and though John felt bad for him, he didn't stop. Sherlock would give up and come in on his own. John suspected that Sherlock hadn't ever drank this much and therefor was unfamiliar with the unpleasant physical side effects. He'd just have to get used to it.

John sat back down in his chair and pulled his quilt back over his legs, warming up by the blazing fire. He flipped through the channels on the telly, listening to the ranging storm outside. A few minutes passed and John heard movement in the bathroom; Sherlock had given up on his pouting and had finally begun to change his own clothes.

John could hear the sound of the wind howling loudly outside and a minute later the power in the flat went out. It was quiet and silent except for the light from the fire and the sound of crackling. It was enough to light the living room, but a few seconds later John heard Sherlock whining from the bathroom. "John…..it's dark in here!"

"Coming Sherlock," John said, lighting a candle and taking it to the bathroom. He paused outside the door. "Are you decent?" he asked.

Sherlock sighed heavily. "Yes…." He said. John went into the bathroom and found Sherlock sitting on the floor, head between his legs, holding his head with his hands. "Sherlock, you okay?" John asked.

"No" Sherlock said not moving.

"What's wrong?" John asked. Sherlock really did seem like he felt bad.

"I'm dizzy" he moaned. "And I vomited….again." He said it like it was a fate worse than death. "Don't worry, got to the toilet this time"

John was moved to compassion when Sherlock looked up. His face was pale but his cheeks were red and it was obvious he was green around the gills. "I don't care about that Sherlock" John said, sitting down on the floor across from Sherlock. "I just want you to feel better. Sorry I made such as big deal about it."

Sherlock's breathing got harder and he turned even greener. John could guess what was coming before Sherlock put his hand to his mouth. "Leave, John" he said urgently. "I don't want you to see"

John thought that this was rather ridiculous seeing as he'd vomited all over him earlier. The alcohol was obvious wearing off and he was becoming more like his old self if he was self-conscious. "No, Sherlock, it's okay if I stay. I'm a doctor, it's no big deal. I've seen my share of puke." he said.

Sherlock shook his head vehemently but a second later he had to give up his argument and turn toward the toilet. John felt bad for his friend as he continued to get sick. He felt like he should do something to comfort him, but he didn't know what. He didn't even know if Sherlock wanted to be comforted.

John did the only thing he could think of, placing a hand on Sherlock's back and began to rub around in circles. He expected Sherlock to bristle under his hand and was surprised when he felt him relax. He stayed cautiously over the toilet for a while before sitting back down on the floor. But even when he sat down he didn't move away from John's hand; in fact, whenever John's hand would move slightly away Sherlock would lean back into it. After a while, Sherlock asked, "John, why are you doing this?"

"What?" John asked.

"Rubbing my back" Sherlock said. It was obvious that it was genuine question.

John didn't really know why he was doing it. "Uh….I think its what you'd call sentiment." He said.

"Oh…" Sherlock said. He seemed to take it in and didn't ask any more questions. John didn't know if he took in a good way, as he always seemed to detest sentiment and emotion, but he stayed for a few minutes more before he turned around and faced John.

"Want to go to the living room now? Is your stomach feeling better?" John asked.

Sherlock was still pale but he didn't look so green. "Yes….its feeling a little better."

Sherlock stood up and he swayed a little bit. John jumped up and put a cautious arm around Sherlock and led him to the living room. He walked him over to the couch and sat him down. When Sherlock sat back relaxed, John went to his chair and sat down again. He thought about trying to hide the quilt, but at this point, after all that happened this evening, he didn't care anymore, and pulled it over him. He sat back and listened to the sound of the fire and the sound of the rain. There wasn't much else to do and John found it rather comforting. He looked at Sherlock, faintly illuminated in the light of the fire. He seemed to be thinking too, though his eyes didn't have the same light as when he was deeply in thought. John knew he probably should just leave it alone; he knew he shouldn't ask about the drinking and the crime scene, but really he still wanted someone to talk to, and even though Sherlock probably wouldn't admit, deep down he had to too.

"You know, you could have come back home" John said.

"What?" Sherlock asked, looking up and at John.

"Earlier" john said, "You could have come back here. After….what happened."

Sherlock thought for a long time before he said, " Didn't want to"

Sherlock looked sad, and it made John sad. " Why?" he asked.

"Just didn't"

John knew Sherlock wasn't an open book. Getting him to discuss his feelings was like trying to move mountains. But the sadness that he saw in Sherlock's eyes and his vulnerability this evening showed John that he wanted to talk, wanted comfort. Even if Sherlock himself didn't yet understand this.

"You know, Sherlock" John started. "It's okay to be sad. It's okay to be human and admit that you feel things. You don't have to hold it all in. What happened today was awful…..truly terrible. You can be sad….I know I am. You can admit that to me. I'm your friend….I'm not going to judge for being human. I know you feel like you have to be strong but you don't have to be all the time…..around me at least." John didn't know where all this was coming from. He blamed the alcohol. " After all the work that you did, and how close we came, to see what happened to that little girl…..it was so tragic. I wish we could have saved her….but you know it wasn't your fault, right?"

John looked at Sherlock but Sherlock didn't speak. He stared off in John's direction, but not directly at him. He appeared to be staring into the fire.

"Well I hope that you know that, because it is true" John continued. " You did everything you could have done and it was that lunatic's fault that he took the life of his own daughter. I know it was worse for you…..it was hard for me. Seeing it happen. I came back here and I did the same thing you did; went straight for the drink. I don't usually do that….you know, because of Harry and everything. But today I really needed it. I really needed you too….but you weren't here. I wanted you to be though"

The words tumbled out of John's mouth like word vomit before he could stop them. What was he saying? He looked at Sherlock expecting judgment, but he didn't find that.

Sherlock was looking at him with a puzzled expression. "Why would you need me? What could I have possibly done?" he asked.

John gave a nervous chuckle. "I don't know….I guess it's that sentiment again." He said. "You know, being sad and wanting someone to talk to, to be close to."

Sherlock gave him another puzzled look. " No….I don't know" he said.

"What do you mean?" John asked.

"I don't understand what you're saying." Sherlock said, "This wanting to talk to someone, it makes you feel better?"

John couldn't believe it but Sherlock actually had no idea what he was talking about. He had no concept of wanting to be comforted by another person when upset. Somehow that made John sad. " Well, yeah. You talk to someone, it doesn't really change anything but it makes you feel better" he said. " Talking, being close…..it helps."

Sherlock seemed to think it over. "What do you mean 'be close'?" he asked.

John hesitated. He wasn't sure where this conversation was going, but Sherlock was never interested in such things. If he was now he better take the opportunity and enlighten his friend on something he obviously had no idea about. " You know, be close to someone, physically…hugging, cuddling, that sort of thing. Helps when you are hurting"

Sherlock thought for a long time. "Is that why you did that in the bathroom?" he asked. "Rubbed my back? Is that…._cuddling?" _

John blushed. Sherlock didn't know any better and he was just asking, but it made John a little uncomfortable. "Yes, that is kind of cuddling. I did it to try and make you feel better since you were feeling so poorly" he said.

Sherlock looked at John with a studying expression. It wasn't up to his normal deductive look but he still appeared to be trying to figure something out. No doubt his brain processes were slowed by the alcohol. "Is that why you have that" he pointed to John's quilt. "Because of _comfort?_"

**hmmm...wonder where this is going? :) Review and let me know what you think! I love reviews!**


	5. Blankies and Cuddles

John really didn't want to talk about it so he tried to give Sherlock a vague answer. "Yes" he said.

But of course with Sherlock it wasn't that easy. "It obviously has an emotional connection to you. Looking at the age of it and the wear and tear it obviously is old, you could get another one but you don't….so, sentiment?"

"Yes" John said, " It is about sentiment"

"The soft material, the blue color…. I'm guessing you've had it since infancy" Sherlock said. "So…..it's your baby blanket?" a smile twitched at Sherlock's mouth. "Your blankie?"

John couldn't believe the way this conversation was going. He guessed that this is what happened when you tried to talk to Sherlock about feelings; somehow he turned it around on John. "It is not my _blankie" _ he said defensively. " I don't have a blankie."

"Well, explain it to me then" Sherlock said, "What is it? You're mother obviously made it for you."

Obviously…..John thought. Even drunk Sherlock could still see things that no one else could. "Yes, my mother made it for me. And yes she did make it for me as a baby but that does NOT mean it's a blankie"

"I know you keep it in your closet and only use it when I'm gone" Sherlock said. "I'm not sure why. I could only assume you were embarrassed of this babyish item."

John sighed. There were no rules with Sherlock; of course he knew all of John's secrets. Nothing was private with him. "I'm not embarrassed" John said. " I just…its personal"

"I'm curious…" Sherlock said. "Why does it make you feel better?"

"Why do you want to know?" John asked. Sherlock never had wanted to know anything like this before and he was curious as to why he did now.

"I don't really understand it….why something like that would make you feel better. It's just a blanket"

John couldn't believe that he was discussing this. " It's not really about the blanket" he said, " It's about the memories attached to it. Whenever I was feeling sick as a child, my mother would sit under the blanket with me and hold me so I would feel better." John felt himself smile a little at the memories.

"And it still comforts you even when you are alone?" Sherlock asked. He seemed fascinated by information. It seemed all new to him.

"Well, yes" John said. "I mean, it's not the same, alone, but it helps."

Sherlock studied him for a while, silent. "It's obvious that it helps, you are smiling just by talking about it."

Silence passed between Sherlock and John for a few minutes. John didn't know what to say, but he felt like something needed to be said. Sherlock was the first one to break the silence. "Could you do it….with me?" he asked. His voice was tentative and a little shaky.

"Do what with you?" John asked. He didn't know what Sherlock wanted and he was wondering why Sherlock seemed unsure, and even, nervous.

Sherlock didn't look at John when he spoke again. He looked down at his lap and fiddled with his dressing gown string. "Sit under the blanket with me?"

John couldn't believe what he was hearing; he knew that Mycroft had said that Sherlock was a friendly drunk but he still couldn't believe that Sherlock was asking to …..be close to him? It was so out of character that even under the influence John was surprised. Even more surprising than that was that Sherlock seemed nervous….as if he thought John might say no, and that actually bothered him.

"You really want to?" John asked. He didn't want to say no because he didn't want to upset Sherlock if he was genuinely looking for comfort but he wanted to find out for sure. "How come?"

Sherlock was still pulling at his dressing gown. " You know….it seems to comfort you, make you feel better. I'd….like to know if it would comfort me too. Like an experiment."

John smiled; of course Sherlock would equate this with an experiment. John figured it made it easier for him to accept. "An experiment with sentiment?" he said.

"Yes" Sherlock said, looking off anywhere but at John. "Well, you know, you tried to comfort me earlier and it was….not bad. So…." Sherlock trailed off; he was actually at a loss for words. John wasn't sure he had ever seen Sherlock at a loss of words. He looked up at John finally; his expression was completely vulnerable and it made John feel sad. It was an expression that said more than Sherlock would, or could say; that no one had ever comforted Sherlock in this way, that he'd never been able to experience really being close with someone. It said that he was hurting and he wanted someone to comfort him. And he wanted John to comfort him.

John wished that he could blame it on the alcohol, but he really couldn't if he was honest; he was glad that Sherlock was asking for him to do this. Because he was hurting too and he didn't want to be alone. John picked up the blanket and walked over to the couch where Sherlock was sitting. Sherlock scooted over to make room for John. John hesitated; he felt a little weird about doing this and it made him hesitate. Sherlock looked up at him, unsure, almost as if wondering if John was going to change his mind.

John sat down on the couch and pulled the blanket over top of him and Sherlock. They weren't exactly close; there was several inches between the two of them and John knew he wasn't really relaxed; he wasn't sure where to go from here and since Sherlock was the one that had requested it, he could initiate where this went. Last thing he wanted to do was do something that would freak Sherlock out. If he did, he might never seek John out for comfort again. And John didn't want that to happen, though he couldn't exactly say why.

A few awkward minutes ticked by. The rain pelted the window with force and the wind howled. The fire caused shadows to dance around the walls. The ticking of the clock seemed really loud. Finally, after an eternity, Sherlock spoke. "So, what do you do next?" he asked.

"Well, um…" John's palms were sweating "I would always lean back on her so she could kind of put her arms around me" His stomach did a little flip flop and he was even more glad that he hadn't taken up Sherlock's offer for ice cream.

Sherlock hesitated for a little bit before scooting back so that he was sitting next to John. He slowly leaned back so that he was lying up against John's chest. He was warm and John actually began to feel himself sweat. He lifted his arms up, not quite sure how to place them. After some hesitation, he finally put one arm around each side of Sherlock, laying his hands on top of Sherlock's chest. He moved his hands slightly so that he could feel Sherlock's heartbeat under his hand; strong and steady.

"Why is your heartbeat elevated?" Sherlock asked loudly in the quiet of the flat.

"Its not!" John said defensively.

"Yes it is. I can hear it" Sherlock moved his head so that his ear was on John's heart. He placed his hand on John's stomach as he listened. "See, there is goes now, even faster."

Damn Sherlock for being so observant…. "Well, yeah now it is" John said, "You've drawn attention to it and you're making me nervous"

"Why on earth would you be nervous?" Sherlock asked. "This is supposed to be comforting."

"I don't know, Sherlock" John said, "Why don't you explain it to me?" when Sherlock actually opened his mouth to respond, John cut him off. "On second thought, never mind."

Sherlock continued to lie against John's chest, his ear at his heart. "Stop listening to my elevated heart rate, Sherlock" John said, slightly annoyed.

"I'm not" Sherlock said. "Now I'm just listening to it….just because I want to hear it"

John felt himself grow red and he was sure his heart rate was reflective of it. "Oh" he said, "Well, then….never mind."

They sat like that for a while, Sherlock lying back on his chest, before Sherlock said. "Was there anything else she would do?"

"She would…um….play with my hair sometimes." John said. The words tried to stick in his mouth and he was sure that Sherlock noticed. Only, he didn't say anything; he didn't acknowledge John's nerves this time. He simply tilted his head so that it was at a better angle to John's hand; an invitation.

John lifted his hand up and put it into Sherlock's hair. He ran his fingers through the dark curls, feeling the softness of them run over his skin. They smelled nice too though John couldn't quite place it. It was just a bunch of different things that made up Sherlock.

"Are you smelling my hair?" Sherlock asked.

"Damn it, Sherlock" John said, exasperated. "Stop deducting for a while!"

"Does it ruin the…._cuddling?" _he asked curiously.

"Yeah, kinda" John said.

"Sorry, I was just curious as to why you'd want to smell me" Sherlock said.

"Well, for one thing, I wasn't" John lied. "But if I was….well, some people like the smell of a familiar person. Some people would find it comforting."

Sherlock paused. " There are a lot of rules to this comforting thing, aren't there?" he asked.

John chuckled. "No, there's no rules….you just do what feels right" he said. "Just go with it"

It got quite again and John resumed running his fingers through Sherlock's hair. After a few minutes, John could feel Sherlock's muscles relax and he became a little limper up against him. He left his head where it had been, perched above John's heart, though he was sure that now it would not be so elevated. John was feeling himself relax at Sherlock relaxing. He knew without Sherlock having to tell him that his heart beat had gone down. It didn't feel so awkward now; it almost felt natural. Soon John's hand was moving without thinking about it.

Sherlock's hand was still placed on John's stomach, which was now feeling rather queasy due to what he had drunk. On cue, almost as if he had read his mind, Sherlock's hand began to rub John's stomach in circles much the same way that he had done for Sherlock when he was getting sick earlier. John felt a small sigh escape his lips though he tried to stop it; he was glad when Sherlock ignored it.

As Sherlock rubbed his churning stomach he closed his eyes and tentatively put his head down against Sherlock's. The dark locks rubbed up against John's face and he didn't even have to try to smell the strange and perfect scent that characterized Sherlock. John was almost asleep when Sherlock spoke. "I really tried….I tried so hard"

John's eyes popped open. From where he had his head he couldn't see Sherlock's face but he knew there must be doubt and failure presented in it. Without even asking, John knew what Sherlock was referring to. He was referring to the case and how it had been unsuccessful. Feeling comforted now, and knowing it was safe, Sherlock could finally open up and say what he wasn't able to earlier.

"I know you did" John said, "And you did really well. You did all that you could have done"

"But I failed" Sherlock said dismally. No one else knew it, and even John wasn't really allow to see it, but deep down under Sherlock's superiority and huge intelligence was a man who was very insecure. He was happy when doing well and successes made him feel good. The slightest failure meant _he _was a failure even if he had done everything right.

"You didn't fail, Sherlock" John said. " You worked tirelessly for a week to find that girl alive. And you did; it was no one's fault but that crazy man that she died. You didn't fail Sherlock."

"If I succeeded she would be alive" Sherlock said.

John sighed. "You can't allow yourself to think like that" he said, "There are some things that you really have no control over, like the actions of other people. Things you control, like your work, you do exceptionally. Don't doubt yourself, Sherlock"

Sherlock didn't speak for a while. John had thought that he'd gone to sleep when Sherlock's hand moved from his stomach to around his side and gave a small squeeze, almost like a half hug. "I think I like this" he said.

John smiled. "Me too, Sherlock. Me too" he said.

**Please let me know what you think! Next chapter is Sherlock's perspective of the experiment :)**


	6. Studying Dr Watson

John had gone to sleep; Sherlock could tell by his slower, more even breathing pattern. And yes, his heart rate; it was slower than it had been. His head, which was resting on top of Sherlock's, went from gently leaning to heavily leaning as his neck tilted in his sleep. Sherlock gently moved back and tilted John's head so that it was resting on the armrest of the couch; if he fell asleep in that other position he was positively going to wake up with his neck muscles strained. And with this rain and cold weather, he was sure to wake up tomorrow with enough muscle pain in his injured shoulder that he didn't need anything else to add to it. John hide it well, but Sherlock could see the way he moved his arm slightly different on cold and wet days; his war injury hurt him.

Sherlock sat there and watched John sleeping. His face was so calm, relaxed as he slept. Sherlock tentatively put his hand on John's cheek. It was soft and warm and Sherlock didn't remove his hand for a while. He felt something in his stomach move around; for a second he thought he needed to run for the bin again, but this was different….strange. His stomach felt odd, but it wasn't the same as being sick or even being hungry (not that he felt that enough to really know what it felt like). Why should it be doing this? He couldn't figure it out; damn that alcohol! It made his brain….._s-l-o-w. _Now he could remember that's why he didn't often drink.

Sherlock kept his hand on John's face, listening to his calm breathing, passing through his slightly parted lips….

Sherlock was taken aback, so much so that he took his hand off John's face and placed it on his own heart. Elevated; odd….. Why should that be? He had done nothing but look at John. He thought about how John's heart rate had been elevated earlier. Was this part of the _cuddling? _Elevated heart rate, increased breathing rate, odd feeling in stomach? _This _part he didn't like. He had to admit that he felt calmer at the experiment; he deemed it a success. That part he liked….this part where his body started to betray him, he didn't like that.

John's touch had been…._comforting. _Gentle, slow, calming; he had enjoyed it. This in itself was a puzzling event. Sherlock hated for people to touch him; he always had. It made him uncomfortable. He couldn't remember a person's touch that he had ever desired, even in childhood. His father was harsh, his mother was cold; hearing John talk about his mother comforting him when he was sick was completely a foreign idea to him. Not many people put up with his behavior; other people found him hard to be around. No one ever had stuck around as long as John had. John wasn't like other people. John cared….John cared whether Sherlock ate or slept, he worried about his smoking habit, he followed him everywhere, put up with his unreasonable requests. When they argued….John would come back. John cared what other people thought and said about him, defended him when people said rude things. Sherlock didn't understand why he did this, but he knew that he was glad to have John around.

No matter what John said, Sherlock did feel like he was a failure. The job was to save the girl's life and he had not done that. She was only inches from him when he had seen the bullet pass through her head, the light going out of her eyes. She had been so terrified and she had reached out to Sherlock for rescue. He hadn't been able to rescue her. All his best efforts had not been enough.

He'd not known what to do when he left the crime scene, all he knew was that he wanted was for the images to stop. Stop seeing the girl, the blood, hear the bullet in his head. Alcohol made his brain slower so he had went for it. Things after that got fuzzy; he couldn't remember what had happened really until later when he was in the flat with John. His mind started to come back to him as he was in the shower and John was cleaning him up. Why would he do that? He wasn't a child, he wasn't an invalid. He was fully capable of washing himself, yet John had done it for him. Why? He remembered in embarrassment now of asking John to help him with his clothes. He didn't know why he'd done that; his head had just been spinning and John had been so helpful in the shower…. This is why he didn't drink! It made it hard to _think _and he hated that!

Soon after John had left Sherlock had thrown up, quite violently again. He felt queasy and chilly and for some reason he hadn't wanted to be alone. Sherlock basked in being alone; when it was quiet and there was no one around he didn't have to pretend and it made it easier to think. He enjoyed being alone; but feeling so physically terrible he had wanted someone-John- around.

He was didn't want John to see him get sick again; in fact he'd ordered him out of the room but of course John didn't listen to him. He'd been forced to be indignantly hunched over the toilet spewing his stomach contents while John watched; embarrassing. But John had surprised him by rubbing his back. What was the point in this? He didn't know, but somehow it made him feel better than he had been feeling. When John removed his hand, he felt colder.

When John has started talking about how talking and 'being close' to someone made you feel better, Sherlock was curious. He felt horrible and he wanted it to go away. His body was sending all kinds of alarm bells as the effects of the alcohol were being made known and he wanted to stop feeling those things. John seemed to take comfort in this, so Sherlock wanted to know what it felt like.

It was an interesting experiment. No one had ever done what John had done; hold him, touch him in a comforting way. It seemed strange to Sherlock at first and he felt aversion like he did to other's touch. But soon he began to feel differently. His heart rate decreased, he felt his body relax; he felt _good. _He wasn't sure what caused John to want to do the things that he did, but if he was not mistaken, John was slightly confused by this experiment as well. No matter what he said, his heart had definitely increased from what it normally was and there was a slight stutter to his speech when Sherlock had asked him about it. Then he'd smelled his hair of all things; what was that about? That wasn't part of what they were trying to recreate from John's childhood memories. So why would he do that? On top of it all, he'd lied and said he didn't. Strange….

Sherlock was curious; John said it was comforting for people to do this. He couldn't imagine why. Not knowing why he was still keeping up the experiment with John asleep, Sherlock laid down on the couch in the small space available beside John. Sherlock looked at John's hair and ran a hand through it. Soft, warm, washed just hours ago with water too hot, cut about two weeks ago by someone that John usually didn't go to , brownish blonde color, with flecks of grey here and there that didn't used to be there; John worried too much.

Sherlock was surprised; he assumed that running one's fingers through someone's hair was for the benefit of the one receiving such an action but Sherlock found the activity to be somewhat enjoyable to the one giving the action. Feeling somewhat ridiculous, Sherlock leaned down and smelled John's sandy hair. He was assaulted by sensory input; John's cologne from this morning, eggs and toast for breakfast, spaghetti for lunch, rain, taxi exhaust, shampoo, vodka. But under all that was something else….something he couldn't place. A smell he hadn't known before….something he didn't know. Just John.

Sherlock didn't understand John and why he was so different. Sherlock didn't like people and people didn't like him. But John was different; John liked him, for whatever reason. When others were shouting at him that he was a freak, John was praising how brilliant he was. Sherlock was pretty sure he _liked _John too. He couldn't be sure, it was such an odd concept for him. He didn't like anyone; they were ordinary, dull ,annoying. But not John. John was interesting mostly certainly not ordinary. And John evoked emotion in him, something no one else had been able to do. He made him _feel _things.

Surprised at how his heart rate was elevated yet again, Sherlock lay down and put one arm around John. Another odd development he found that his palms were sweating. Sherlock was just making the decision to go back to his own bed for the alcohol was wearing off and did not like the feelings that he was beginning to experience, when John turned in his sleep. He rolled around a little bit and his hands reached up and grabbed Sherlock by the arm, making it now impossible to get up without waking John. Sherlock didn't know what to do, so he just lay down and decided to go to sleep, trying to ignore the _feelings _he was having. He was almost asleep when he heard John whisper his name.

It was very faint but he heard it. "Yes, John?" he asked. Only John didn't answer. He called out his name faintly again, but didn't acknowledge him there. Sherlock sat up so that he could see John' face. He was still asleep; he was talking in his sleep. Not just talking, saying_ his_ name.

Trying to ignore the signals that his body was sending him that made things confusing, Sherlock laid down to sleep. It had been almost a week since he'd last slept and he now felt the need to sleep. He went to sleep with a smile on his face, for the first time that he could remember.


	7. Hangover Thank-Yous

When John woke up the next morning and he was instantly aware of the pounding in his head signifying that he was now both sober and hung over. Despite this, he actually did feel rested. He opened his eyes and was assaulted by the bright light coming into the flat's windows. His eyes burned a little at it and it made his head hurt even more. But when he opened his eyes he noticed that he was holding onto something; he looked down and saw he was holding onto Sherlock's arm, which was draped around him. Somehow during the night they had gone from the sitting position that they'd been in, to this laying down position. John's face burned and he quickly sat up; imagine, spooning with Sherlock! No wonder people talked!

Without the effects of the alcohol he was embarrassed at how much he had shown his feelings. No doubt Sherlock would be embarrassed as well and would judge him for

being so emotional. After all, the Sherlock that he had seen last night- needy, emotional, caring- was not the Sherlock that he'd known for all this time.

In an effort to distance himself from Sherlock, however reluctantly, John went to the bathroom. When he came out he went to the kitchen to start a pot of tea and get breakfast. He didn't feel like making much and no doubt Sherlock wouldn't eat so John just settled on cereal which was easy. He was just pouring himself a cup of tea when Sherlock walked drowsily into the kitchen. He sat down at the table, rubbing his eyes as John poured him a cup of tea.

"How are you feeling?" John asked as he sat down and began to eat.

Sherlock put his hands on his head. "Ah! Must you shout?" he asked.

John smiled. "I didn't. That's your hangover. Pounding head, loud sounds, bright lights…."

Sherlock scowled at John "You think its funny I'm in pain?" he asked.

"I can see you're back to your normal, pleasant self" John said sarcastically.

"Shut up unless you have something constructive to say" Sherlock snapped, laying his head down on the table and only getting up every minute or so to sip his tea. John finished his breakfast before he spoke again. "How's your stomach feeling? "

"Quite awful as you can imagine" Sherlock said sitting up.

"So you don't want any cereal I guess?" John asked pleasantly, thrusting the cereal box at Sherlock. Sherlock turned green. "No" he said stiffly.

John put his dishes in the sink and poured himself and Sherlock another cup of tea. As they sipped their tea, John said, "So, how much do you remember of last night?" John didn't know if he really wanted to know. He was kind of afraid of what Sherlock might say about the surplus of emotions.

"Hardly anything" Sherlock said waving a hand. "I was quite intoxicated."

John felt himself deflate like a balloon. He hadn't wanted Sherlock to judge him for how he acted, but still he was sad at the thought that Sherlock didn't remember it. It had kind of meant something to John; he found, strangely, that he wanted it to mean something to Sherlock too.

"Oh, really? You don't remember anything?" John asked neutrally, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I really don't. Should I?" he asked.

"No, I suppose not" John said. It sounded dejected even to his own ears. He pushed back from the table and got up.

"Aren't you going to finish your tea?" Sherlock asked.

"No" John said without turning around. He was almost out of the kitchen when Sherlock said, "John!"

John turned around. "What?" he asked.

"This is hard for me to say" Sherlock said unsteadily. "But I think you need me to say it. And I mean it….." he paused for an eternity. "But, last night…."

Sherlock seemed stuck and John was getting a nervous stomach waiting on him to spit the words out. "I thought you didn't remember anything?" John said skeptically.

"Uh….well" Sherlock stuttered in an unusual fashion. "What I'm trying to say is….thank you for….helping me….experiment" Sherlock looked up at John with an unsure face.

John smiled. "No problem" he said. He was surprised when a broad smile spread across Sherlock's face.

**Well that's the end of this one :) hope you all liked it!**


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